


So Much Left to Say

by myownspark



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Football, Alternate Universe - High School, Best Friends, Blow Jobs, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Established Relationship, Frottage, Kissing, Love, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 20:44:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12779151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myownspark/pseuds/myownspark
Summary: Reason #32: Cheer Someone Up.Harry remembers Louis stalking along the Cougar’s sideline as the final seconds of the game ticked away. He was apart from everyone, with his arms crossed and his head down, sort of fragile looking even in his pads and helmet. Harry’s fingers actually itched to hold his hand, just as they do now.He holds the phone up to take a selfie and smiles into the camera, trying to ask Louis a question with his eyes. (Are you really okay? Tell me the truth. I bet you’re sitting on your bed, playing Madden, sulking. If you want to see me, I’ll come. I know you better than anyone. You’re sad. I’d like to come.)He pushes send.(Harry and Louis play for rival high school football teams, and when they play against each other in the Homecoming game, someone has to lose.)





	So Much Left to Say

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to my beta @gettingaphdinlarry. I am so lucky to have you as a beta, but more importantly, as my friend. And thank you so much to @louandhazaf for your valuable opinion, and to @mynameisntwalter for the last minute football beta. I appreciate you!
> 
> Story and title inspired by Shawn Mendes’ “Lights On.”

 

Friday, 10:15 p.m.

Harry smiles when he gets the idea: tacos, plus one of those cheesy gordita things that Louis likes, and definitely some cinnamon twists. That’ll do the trick.

He picks up his phone from the bathroom counter and taps Louis’ name.

 **What do you want from Taco Bell?**  
**I’m buying  
And delivering**

He puts his phone down and wipes the steam off the mirror. His hair is damp, and when he runs his fingers through it he notices that his whole body aches a little. He’ll have some bruises tomorrow, probably, but it’s worth the two caught touchdown passes, one the winning Hail Mary. Coach Langford was pleased, and his teammates too; it was their most important game of the year so far, Homecoming, against their rival school, and the Eagles had won it. A mixture of adrenaline and relief makes his arms jumpy even though the game’s been over for almost an hour.  

His phone vibrates, and Harry’s excitement at the notification from Louis drops like a popped balloon when he reads the message.

**Don’t want anything  
I’m going to bed.**

Well. That’s going to throw a large wrench into his plans.

Harry missed Louis tonight. Friday nights in fall are tough anyway, since both of them have their own games to play, but tonight was different. Louis was closer than usual, but impossible to touch; after it was over there was only time for a pat on the helmet and a “good game.” The team was going to Chase’s for the victory party, but Harry declined, saying he was tired. Everyone knew where he really wanted to be, and didn’t give him a hard time about it. They even told Harry that he should bring Louis along, but Harry could tell from across the field that Louis wasn’t up for going out.

It never occurred to Harry that Louis wouldn’t be up for seeing him, either.

He chews on his lip, then taps out a response.

 **How’s this**  
**three chicken tacos**  
**One beef gordita supreme**  
**Cinnamon twists and**  
**a large cherry limeade**  
**I can be there in 20**  
**:)**

He has just enough time to smooth on his deodorant before his phone vibrates again.

**Seriously  
don’t come**

**Are you ok?**

**:/**  
**Tired  
See you 2mrw k?**

Harry sighs and leans against the bathroom counter, readjusting the towel around his waist. Tomorrow. The homecoming dance.

He remembers Louis stalking along the Cougar’s sideline as the final seconds of the game ticked away. He was apart from everyone, with his arms crossed and his head down, sort of fragile looking even in his pads and helmet. Harry’s fingers actually itched to hold his hand, just as they do now.

Harry holds the phone up to take a selfie and smiles into the camera, trying to ask a question with his eyes. (Are you really okay? Tell me the truth. I bet you’re sitting on your bed, playing Madden, sulking. If you want to see me, I’ll come. I know you better than anyone. You’re sad. I’d like to come.)

He pushes send.

Thirty seconds later the phone hums in his hand. He taps the text icon open, and Louis is looking up at him, head on his pillow, lit by the gentle gold of his bedside lamp. The corners of his mouth turn up in a tight grin, but his eyes aren’t shining.

Harry sighs. He wants to kiss Louis’ false smile until his sad eyes close.

A new plan unfolds in his mind, and he types as he walks down the hall to his bedroom.

**Ok.  
2mrw.**

**Night.**

**Night.**  
  
  


◊ ◊ ◊  
  


Saturday, 12:15 a.m.

Louis’ sleep is restless, the kind that doesn’t feel like sleep so much as a murky, endless fever dream.  

A part of him knows he’s in bed, under covers, in the dark of his quiet room. But another part of him is still on the football field, trying to kick that field goal again and again, but each time choking.

Paul’s snap is long and quick, and Kade snatches the ball out of the air and places it perfectly, just in time for what should be Louis’ kick, smooth like clockwork. There isn’t anything better than how the three of them work like gears in a well-oiled machine. Snap, place, kick. Only now Louis’ legs are stuck together because they’re tangled in the sheets underneath his quilt; time stands still with his feet stuck to the ground and Kade holding the ball.

“Again, again,” Coach Brooks says, barely disguising his frustration. But Louis’ legs won’t do what he wants them to. He sees Kade’s eyes roll underneath his facemask, and now the crowd is stomping their feet on the bleachers not from excitement, but from impatience.

_Bang, bang, bang._

Louis is sweating, and he rolls to his other side. If he can only get his legs free that ball will go sailing through the uprights like it’s done five hundred times before, the fans will quit their stomping and this nightmare will be over.

“Come on, Legs!” Paul shouts at him.

_Bang, bang, bang._

The loud metallic clanging of feet on the stands continues as Paul snaps, Kade holds, and Louis stands there, his hips hopelessly locked, knees feeling like they’re mired in cement.

Coach Brooks folds his arms. “Again.”

Kade tosses the ball back to Paul as the clouds roll in and the wind picks up. On the opposite bench, the Eagles are starting to celebrate, taking off their helmets and giving each other high fives. Harry is over there, away from everyone else, helmet still on. Louis can feel his eyes. (Nice and easy. Don’t pull it. Watch your spin. You can do it. Show ’em.)

_Bang, bang, bang._

The stomping sounds muffled this time; now it’s more like a _knock, knock, knock._ Louis’ palms are sticky with sweat, and he rubs them together as he looks at the sideline, which is actually the window in his bedroom, barely lit by moonlight. The ominous banging from his dream is gone, replaced with a dull knocking on the pane.

“Whatthefuck …” Louis mumbles as he pushes the covers aside. He rubs his eyes, unsure if he heard right, and reaches toward his nightstand to turn on the lamp. He squints toward the window and—

“Holy shit!” Louis has the presence of mind to whisper instead of shout when he sees Harry outside, standing on the porch roof in his green and white Eagles sweatshirt. He gives Louis a shrugging wave. Louis’ legs are wobbly but two steps ahead of his foggy brain, and they carry him over to the window, where for a second he just stares through it. This must be real life because Harry is smiling at him, gesturing with one hand to open up.

Louis turns the lock and slides the window open, letting cold air and one of Harry’s feet in.

“What the fuck, did you drive here?” Louis whispers. Harry’s other leg swings inside, then he ducks his head and pulls himself through, tracking a few wet leaves onto Louis’ carpet.

“Biked,” Harry says as he stands, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Didn’t want to wake up the neighborhood with the pickup.”

“What time is it?” Louis peeks out the open window. Sure enough, he can make out Harry’s ten speed leaning against the maple tree in the side yard. It’s the bike Harry bought with the money he earned mowing lawns in their eighth grade summer, the last summer they were neighbors, with Harry living just six doors down. That August Harry moved, and suddenly they were starting high school without each other, Louis at Central and Harry at St. Patrick’s, all the way on the other side of the city.

“A little after twelve,” Harry whispers, pulling off his sneakers. He sniffs. “It’s cold.”

The air outside is frosty, with the crisp smell of green things that are starting to die. Louis’ heart thumps when he sees a flash of white in the tree, and he thinks someone has teepeed his yard, but it’s just the ghost his little sister made out of a sheet for Halloween. And of course the yard signs the Pom squad made are still there, shouting in the Cougar colors of red and tan: “This is Cougar Country!” and “Tomlinson #28” and “Cougars Crush the Eagles!!” He should have taken them down when they got home. He rubs his eyes again, and backs away from the window as Harry pulls it shut.

Harry turns, and Louis notices that his cheeks and nose are red. Louis wants to feel the cold softness of those cheeks, a side-effect of Harry's long trip, proof of the lengths he’ll go. He sticks his hands in the pockets of his flannel pants instead.

“Why are you … I mean … why’d you come?” (What about curfew? What if someone hears us? I screwed up. I can’t believe you’re here! I wanted to see you, but I was scared.) Louis considers locking his bedroom door, but the thought of walking across the room on unsteady legs is daunting; another part of him worries that if he turns his back on Harry he’ll vanish, and this will have been a dream after all.

“You said you’d see me tomorrow. Well, it’s tomorrow, isn’t it?” Harry sniffs again, and reaches into the wide pocket of his sweatshirt. “Brought you something.” He pulls out a crinkling sandwich bag that is probably not as loud as it seems.

“Snowballs?” Louis is careful to whisper. There are three in the bag, round chocolate-chocolate chip cookies rolled in coconut, the kind Harry’s mom makes for special occasions. He wishes he was in the mood to eat; since the game he’s had a heavy feeling in his chest that doesn’t let him breathe all the way, and his stomach feels like it’s filled with rocks. But he puts on a smile. “Thanks.”

Harry puts his hands back in his pocket, then brings out a small see-through plastic box and hands it over.

Inside is a white rose boutonniere on a bed of green tissue paper.

Maybe it’s because he’s tired, but Louis feels an itch in his eye that makes him blink. (You came all this way in the cold and brought me presents? You’re mine. You really are.) The flower box seems delicate and Louis feels anxious and clumsy holding it all of a sudden, like it might fall out of his hand. He slinks toward the edge of the bed and sits with a heavy sigh, holding it on his lap.

He doesn’t look up when he speaks. “You still want to go with me?”

“Of fucking course, what the hell?” Harry lands next to him on the bed, making the mattress bounce a little.

Louis looks at him with a scowl. “I’m a complete fuckup.”

“You are fucking not, shut up. I’m not taking a fuckup to homecoming.” Harry takes the box out of Louis’ hand and pops the lid open. The flower inside looks like a treasure out of some fairy tale, precious and too pretty, made for someone else.

“I lost the game.”

“Oh, _you_ did? Where was everybody else?”

Harry hands him the open box. Louis brings it up to his nose and sniffs halfheartedly. It smells like his grandma’s perfume. She’s probably pissed at him too, looking down from heaven.

“Pssh. Scoring. Tackling. Doing what they were supposed to do.”

“Shh, not so loud.”

The rosebud is just barely opening, and there are a few tiny white flowers tucked in with it. Baby’s breath, Louis thinks it’s called. He gives it a gentle poke with his finger. “I fucking choked. Legs stiffened up. I never fucking do that. It wasn’t even close.”

“But it was long, Lou, forty-something yards? And why’d you have to kick in the first place, huh?”

Louis stares at him, confused. “Because I’m the kicker.”

“Because Carter couldn’t get the ball downfield. Left Jase hanging twice, and almost fumbled on that stupid carry, right? You were trying to fucking save his ass ’cause he couldn’t get his shit done.”

Louis shrugs.

“And we wouldn’t have even scored that third time if whatshisname … PJ?”

“TJ.”

“Yeah, TJ. How many holding penalties did he have? That was like … thirty yards right there. Surprised your coach didn’t yank him.”

Harry is right, sort of. TJ couldn’t look at anyone after the game, too pissed at himself. Louis knows the feeling.

He shakes his head. “Still.”

“Bullshit. Not ‘still.’ How many points did you score tonight?” Harry opens the cookie bag and offers Louis one.

“Eight.” Louis can answer without thinking. Two extra points, two field goals. Three field goals would have won it for them, twenty-three to twenty-one. But the final score is what it is, twenty-one to twenty, Eagles. Louis can still see the wave of green and white rolling off the bleachers and flooding the field at the end of the game, and Harry hugging and high-fiving his teammates. Louis waves the cookie away, even though it smells good and his mouth is watering.

“Eight points they wouldn’t have without you,” Harry says, then takes a bite of it himself.

“Hey. That’s mine.” Louis hears himself griping and makes a face.

“You didn’t want it.”

“Changed my mind.”

Harry holds the cookie up so Louis can take a bite. “Mmm. Damn.”

“I know.”

Louis takes the cookie and they don’t speak for a while; their feet touch, then their knees, and all the time Louis is chewing and swallowing with the flower on his lap, looking at the floor.

“Better?” Harry asks, and bumps him with his elbow.

As if Louis can stop thinking about it, as if sitting here with their legs touching eating cookies fixes anything at all. No amount of cheerleading from his mom after the game could make a dent in his mood; Louis’ dad had known better than to even try and didn’t say a word, which was really better all around. The thought of looking at his messages, or Twitter, or showing up to school on Monday or to Harry’s dance tomorrow makes Louis’ chest cave in and he closes his eyes tight.

“No.” (It’s not like when I flunked my driver’s test or didn’t get picked to play Ren in _Footloose_. I let _everybody_ down. I mean. What the fuck. A fucking cookie won’t make it better, do you get that?) Louis sighs and leans into Harry’s arm just a little. (The flower kind of does, though. Weird.)

Harry smells like soap and clean laundry, and Louis takes another breath, debating whether he wants to put his head on Harry’s shoulder. He pulls out another cookie instead, and takes a bite.

“It’s a shame the paper was wrong about you,” Harry whispers.

“Huh?”

“That story about your legs. ‘Best legs in Ramsey County.’”

It was part of the big Star Tribune high school football preview that was published in August. There was a huge picture of Louis heading up the special teams spread, mid-kick above the fold, with the caption, “Which team boasts the best kicker in Ramsey County? Our money is on Central. With both accuracy and leg strength, senior Louis Tomlinson should lead the pack.” Louis’ mom framed it and put it in the TV room, and by the end of the first week of school Louis’ locker was decorated with red balloons and streamers and copies of the photo. Louis has been “Legs” ever since.

Harry’s warm thigh presses against Louis’. “Wrong, wrong, wrong,” Harry singsongs quietly. “I’ll have to tweet the Strib tomorrow. Tell them they have to print a … uh, a whatsit ...” Harry’s hands gesture in front of him, trying to find the word.

Louis swallows the last bite and rolls his eyes. “Retraction.”

“Right, a retraction.” Harry chuckles, his hand patting Louis’ leg dismissively as if to say “nice try.” But soon his hand rests there on the space just above his knee, and gives it a small squeeze.

The heavy weight on Louis’ chest breaks open for the first time all night, and he looks up. The face that meets him is his best friend. Not his crush, not his boyfriend, but the kid that taught him to swim in first grade. The boy who punched Louis in the nose in fourth when Louis said the Packers would never be as good as the Vikings, then ran them both inside and confessed tearfully to the school nurse as she got towels and an ice pack. The friend who sat with him in the treehouse on a rainy day in eighth when Louis ached to tell someone that maybe he didn’t like girls that way.

“Bullshit,” Louis says, pressing his leg back against Harry’s a little harder.   

“Oh really?”

“Really.”

“How come?” Harry asks. Louis knows what he’s doing, playing dumb, reverse psychology, or whatever it’s called. But the heaviness cracks open a little more, and Louis sits up straighter. It feels good.

“Cause they weren’t wrong. I still have the best record, even after tonight. Well, when I went to bed North Oaks didn’t have their stats up yet, but …” The only other kicker in the county whose numbers come close to Louis’ is from over in Spring Lake Park, and they had a bye week, so maybe Louis got lucky; but either way, his standing is safe, at least until next Friday.

Harry smiles. “I figured. I don’t think anyone can catch you. You’d have to miss every kick for the rest of the season to lose it.”

“Maybe.” It’s just a whisper. “We’ll see.” Now their shoulders touch, and Louis senses Harry’s head tilting closer. Harry puts one arm behind Louis with his hand on the mattress, the eagle with its outstretched wings between them.

“Hustle, hit …” Harry begins, with a smile in his voice.

It’s the cheer they used to do in peewee league, when their pads were bigger than they were and they didn’t know the difference between the offensive and defensive lines. Louis chuckles at Harry’s earnest face.

“Come on,” Harry says. “Say it. Hustle, hit …”

“Never quit.”

“Right. Now once more, like you mean it.”

Louis takes a breath and finally looks Harry right in the eyes. He says the words softly. “Hustle, hit, never quit.”

Harry gives him a little nodding smile, and like that, the space closes between them. They are boyfriends again.

Louis can remember every step it’s taken them to get here. He can even pinpoint the moment he really felt them move into that more-than-friends space, when they were hanging out at Harry’s grandma’s two summers ago, the afternoon before her yard sale. She needed help getting furniture and boxes set out for the next day, and Harry’s mom had volunteered Harry, so of course Harry volunteered Louis.

Harry looked different in the late afternoon light, with a few days of sparse whiskers growing in and his skin a deep tan from long days lifeguarding at the pool. Louis found himself showing off, lifting heavy boxes and walking with them on one shoulder, taking an old headboard down from the attic by himself, catching fragile knickknacks that Harry would toss to him playfully until Harry’s mom caught them and yelled.

Louis would catch Harry watching him and then looking away; they would brush past each other close when making trips back and forth through the garage, an electric pull crackling between them each time. There was something about that work, the way their eyes held as they lifted the old kitchen table and maneuvered it out to the driveway together, or handed heavy boxes off to each other wordlessly from the basement stairs. They got sweaty and touchy and a little bit flirty, and Louis could tell Harry was showing off too, especially when he carried the bulky box-style television out all by himself.

Suddenly Louis wanted Harry to laugh at things he said; he wanted Harry to watch him and notice things about him and be impressed and think he was strong. He wanted to be the one who had inside jokes with Harry, ones that no one else understood. He wanted to be on Harry’s side, always, and for Harry to want to be on his.

That is still true now, even though they can’t always be.

“St. Pat’s still sucks.” Louis whispers, their faces almost touching.

Harry snorts. “Yeah, right. We’ll suck all the way to state, you watch.”

That makes Louis chuckle quietly. (I’ll come see you. I’ll be in the stands and I’ll wave so you’ll know I’m there. Alicia from band will be looking at you the way she does, when she should be paying attention to her sheet music, and that trainer, whatshisname? I see how he follows you around.  Everyone loves you, you know that, right? But they know that you’re with me.)

“You killed it tonight, you know,” Louis says, letting the sleeve of his t-shirt brush against Harry’s arm. That one catch in the fourth quarter was like something they would see on _SportsCenter_ , where the receiver shakes away the defender and spins on a dime, opening his hands to the ball the moment it sails in. Louis’ heart had jumped with pride, then sunk when Harry got tackled so hard he was lifted off his feet. It took a while for Harry to get up, and Louis had paced the sideline with Paul close by, reassuring him that Harry would be alright. His thumbnail still hurts from chewing it down to the quick for that endless minute.

“Thanks,” Harry says, smiling and leaning into Louis. “Do I get a cookie?”

“Yup.” Louis offers the bag and Harry takes the last one. “Tell your mom thanks.”

“Can’t,” Harry whispers between bites. “She doesn’t know I’m gone.”

Louis looks in his eyes, the pretty green of them just inches away. There’s a warm tickle on his thigh where Harry’s finger traces a shape. His muscle tenses, and he thinks again about locking his door.

“You could get in trouble, so … you should probably go, huh?”

“Do you want me to?”

It’s mischievous, suddenly, and kind of exhilarating, the two of them hatching a plan in secret. Harry is like a fugitive or something, or an admirer from a rival family in a Shakespeare tragedy. The thought of Harry sneaking out to bike across town in the cold darkness to climb up Louis’ porch wall and knock on his window seems utterly stupid and risky and romantic. It makes Louis’ heart really beat for the first time all night, and he looks at Harry with wonder. (You really did this. Are we really doing this?)

“Um, no? You could stay. A little longer, right? I mean.”

Harry nods and bites his lip, and Louis notices his leg is moving with a little bounce, like he’s nervous. “Yeah, I could.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Louis slips his arm out from under Harry’s so he can get up. Closing the lid on the flower box seems wrong and a little rude, so he puts it on his nightstand open, and tiptoes to the door to lock it.

He can hear fabric rustling as he flips the lock as quietly as he can; when he turns he sees Harry pulling his arms out of his sleeves and lifting his sweatshirt over his head. His t-shirt almost goes with it, but Harry pulls it back down and tosses his sweatshirt over Louis’ desk chair. There is a cozy feeling of closing up and tucking in, putting the day away together, and it makes Louis smile.

“Light on?” Harry whispers as Louis gets closer. He has a funny look on his face, and Louis knows he’s thinking of that Shawn Mendes song they both like, that Harry texts Louis lyrics from at the most inopportune times, like during dinner, or first thing in the morning.

“Nah, off.”

Harry makes a little face but leans back to kill the light as Louis goes around to the other side of the bed. In the dark they lie down at the same time, making no move to get under the covers, both flat on their backs looking at the ceiling. It’s like this a lot, Louis thinks, like they are starting over every time, never just falling comfortably into each other’s arms, but inching tentatively, carefully closer, as if they aren’t sure that it will be okay. (It will be. I promise. You and I will always be okay.)

Louis’ eyes adjust and his room becomes a shadowy space of black on black. He can see the window of course, and his desk, but his trophy shelf across the room is just a blur. Next to him Harry is a dark shape with an arm that’s reaching out, searching for which parts of Louis are where. Louis catches his hand to hold it. It’s warm and dry and Louis could kiss it, but that would be a little silly.

Each move is even slower than usual so the bed doesn’t creak; Louis pokes Harry’s socked foot with his toe and their feet fight a minute, which makes them laugh short, almost silent chuckles. Harry scoots closer carefully toward the center of the bed. Now Louis can smell Harry’s deodorant and the light citrusy scent of his clean hair.

There is a swoop in Louis’ stomach when Harry’s hand creeps up underneath the bottom of his shirt and rests against his stomach. Louis tries to keep one ear trained for noise outside the room but the sound of Harry’s warm whisper pulls him right back.

“Want to?”

(Please, yes, you could get closer, you could put your arms around me, you could hug me tight like you can’t help it, and tell me I don’t have anything to prove.) “Yeah,” Louis says, almost without sound. Louis reaches out for Harry’s shirt too, finds it in the dark, and lets his hand push under it and move over his warm skin. They both turn at the same time so they are facing each other, barely seeing, but listening, sensing, feeling.

“Is this okay?” Harry whispers, moving his hand around to Louis’ back, under the waistband of Louis’ pants.

“Mhmm.” Louis is relieved, because it’s taking his body a little while to catch up to what’s going on; if Harry’s hand is on his ass he won’t realize, probably, that Louis isn’t even half hard yet. Louis flexes his hips, giving Harry something to grab onto, but feels nothing down there, not a tingle or a beat of warmth. Nothing.

“Mmm, you feel good.”

It makes Louis smile, but he’s glad he told Harry to turn off the light. He reaches for the front of Harry’s sweats, careful to make his movements slow and quiet. He feels Harry’s hardness through the fabric first, and strokes it as their foreheads lean together. Louis wants to be kissed; he shifts and strokes his cheek against Harry’s as he slips his hands inside his pants, the smooth length fitting perfectly inside his fingers.

Harry moans in his throat when Louis strokes him. His hands move farther down to cup Louis’ ass cheeks, and his lips skim along Louis’ forehead. Louis gives him one more pull up and down before letting him go so he can push Harry’s sweats down for a better angle.

“No, uh, no,” Harry whispers, pulling away, and before Louis can stop him he’s shimmying down toward Louis’ waist, his face obscured in shadow, asking, “Can I?”

(Shit, Harry, I’m sorry, I’m not … I don’t know, it’s not you, for sure it’s not, it’s … I …) Louis sighs because Harry’s already got the front of his pants down, and he can feel Harry’s warm breath on the skin of his soft dick.

Harry hums with a quiet, curious noise as he takes Louis’ pants down further so the waistband is around his thighs. His hands push on Louis’ hip to roll him onto his back and Harry gets between his legs with the fabric between them. Louis is grateful that Harry can’t see him cringe; his body already betrayed him once tonight, with Harry there to see, and now it’s twice, and all Louis can think is that he’d like to crawl under the bed and die.  

But Harry is kissing the crease of his hip, licking the skin at the top of his thigh, nosing into the hair there, all while holding Louis’ softness.

“Sorry,” Louis whispers. (You shouldn’t, I don’t think it’s gonna happen, it’s … ugh, you don’t have to.)

Harry pulls Louis’ pants down further instead of answering him, and his mouth drags along the edge of the thick muscle of Louis’ thigh, making him shiver.

“I really like these,” Harry whispers, and places kisses there as he touches the other thigh, using almost the same motion the trainer uses when she massages him after the game. Harry’s hands are warmer than hers are, and bigger too; Louis finds himself breathing deeply in time with the pattern Harry is rubbing into the muscle. He tries to get lost in the feeling of it, let his body go, but he can’t shake the feeling that he won’t be able to do it; even though he wants this and he can feel the wet teasing softness of Harry’s tongue, there isn’t even a flicker of action happening between his legs.

“Harry, wait, ugh …”

Harry takes him in his mouth, and it’s an odd, not altogether pleasant feeling. Harry’s hand strokes up to meet his mouth, and for a second Louis feels the familiar flush of heaviness in his pelvis that makes his thighs quiver. Harry strokes again, taking almost all of him inside, then concentrates on just the head, tracing his tongue around its ridge. Louis puts his hands on Harry’s shoulders and leans his head back, still careful to stay quiet as Harry moves. He’s focused on where Harry’s hands fit perfectly, pressing down on both sides of his hips, holding him in place. Louis’ legs curl; his tired thigh muscles don’t know whether to tense or unwind, and he tries to breathe deeply.

But there in the darkness is a vision of the field, the players, the scoreboard ticking down. He knows what they’re all thinking, with their stomping feet and stern faces; he can hear the collective groan from his side of the stands and the whoop of joy from the other when the ball lands a good ten yards short of the goalpost.

Louis lets out a long sigh, and moves his legs together. Harry takes it as the signal Louis meant it to be, and he stops what he’s doing.

“Sorry,” Louis whispers again to the dark room. Louis reaches under Harry to pull up his pants, and Harry crawls back up, landing half on him and half to his side.

“We can kiss instead.”

“Okay,” Louis whispers, even though the night is probably ruined. He puts his hand halfheartedly on Harry’s back, mostly because he doesn’t know where else to put it. Harry is still hard against his hip, but the moment seems over now, and Louis doesn’t quite know where to go.

“Sure you don’t want the light on?”

“Ugh, no.”

Harry chuckles a little and moves over him slightly. He’s a heavy dark shape that Louis can’t see the details of, but he can hear Harry humming and smell his breath that’s still chocolatey. His hand comes up under Louis’ jaw and their noses touch for just a second before Harry’s lips touch his lightly. Too lightly, but then Harry turns Louis’ head and whispers in his ear.

“Thanks for letting me in.” The whisper tickles and Louis scrunches his shoulder up, but Harry licks his earlobe and sucks it inside his mouth. Somehow that spot must be connected directly to Louis’ nipples, because a flush burns in his chest and he can feel them tightening against the soft cotton of his shirt.

Louis finally touches Harry’s cheek; it’s warm now, and soft, with a hard square jaw underneath. He pulls Harry’s mouth back to his and kisses it gently, feeling Harry’s hips press against him when they connect again.

They seem to both take a breath at the same time, as if relaxing, or relieved. The kiss grows and deepens with slow shifting breaths, and Louis isn’t just kissing, but beginning to taste. The memory is sweet, Tootsie Rolls that were tossed from Fourth of July parade floats, Milky Ways and Snickers traded as they slung Halloween treat bags over their shoulders, Mounds bought from the Super America on the walk home from elementary and eaten under the crabapple tree in Harry’s front yard.

And their first kiss, the night of Sara Munson’s party to celebrate the last night of Central’s winter musical. The kitchen had cleared out, with everyone going to the living room to watch the end of _It’s a Wonderful Life_. But Harry and Louis stayed behind, pretending to refill chip bowls and get more ice. But really they were staring, gazing, and orbiting, all the while giggling knowingly, because they both could feel it, that this of all places, with Dorito cheese powder on their fingers and cherry Coke breath, was the place it was finally going to happen. Louis thought his knees might give out when Harry moved in closer and closer, finally cornering him at the kitchen counter. Harry was smiling and shaking his head a little, his eyes shining. (“You were so good tonight, you never told me you had so many solos! You’re like ... a star _._ _My_ star.”) Then Harry kissed him, gently at first, the voices of Louis’ theater friends singing “Auld Lang Syne” floating in from the next room.

Louis’ mind swims with the memory and his heart melts with the feeling. Now there’s another memory, snowball cookies in the middle of the night, the time Harry biked to his house after the homecoming game.

He clutches the back of Harry’s neck with both hands, moving his fingers into Harry’s hair. Louis can see only the barest outline of his features, but knows them by heart, his dark eyebrows, the scar near his ear, the little mole next to the corner of his mouth. Louis’ kiss wants to touch them all. His tongue draws Harry closer, and they are more and more together. The whispery groan that Harry lets out vibrates against Louis’ mouth, and it makes Louis’ eyes close into the heavy, grounded feeling of heat and stiffness between his legs.

Harry has found it too. The flat, warm palm of his hand draws slowly over Louis’ pants, and Louis has to grind up because it feels so good. He groans too loudly and Harry smiles against his chin.

“Feel good?” Harry turns the angle of his hand so the head of Louis’ dick rubs against the crease of Harry’s palm and Louis has to throw his head back for real this time, the ache of it making him gasp. His legs are parting too, instinctively maybe, because Louis doesn’t feel like he’s doing it on purpose, but they are unfolding anyway, making room.

One parting kiss and Harry is off him again, sliding away, and Louis feels the fabric of his pants pulling down, this time all the way down his legs and off. His dick springs up and Harry’s hand is on it instantly, and a moment later the wet heat of his mouth is taking him in. Louis’ legs bend a bit so his feet can press into the mattress to steady himself, and Harry settles between them.

Louis’ hands are on Harry’s shoulders again, and his fingers press into the hard muscles there that flex and shift every time Harry’s head moves up and down; Louis gathers Harry’s t-shirt in wrinkled folds, pulling on it until Harry gets the message and sits up for a second to yank it off. The bed moans and squeaks with all the movement, and they both go still for a wary few seconds, listening. When they hear nothing, Harry leans over again, this time lifting one of Louis’ legs so his thigh rests on Harry’s naked shoulder.

The angle is perfect and makes Louis bite his lip so he doesn’t groan out loud. He pulses his hips up just slightly, using the muscles of his thighs to push inside Harry’s mouth a little at a time, back and forth, panting almost silently, willing himself to go slow. Not seeing what’s happening is probably a good thing, because the sensation itself, of being offered up and accessible with nothing between them makes what Harry is doing with his mouth and his tongue almost too much to bear.  There is another sound too, a rustling of sheets, and Louis realizes it’s Harry grinding his hips against the mattress in pulses along with him.

“Wait, wait, come here,” Louis whispers, because suddenly his body and his legs ache to have Harry’s full weight on them, to take the pressure of that grind. Harry lifts up and lets Louis pull him by his arms so they are face to face again.

“Shh, we have to be … ugh … quiet, okay?” Louis moans again, pushing the waistband of Harry’s sweats down just enough so the smooth heat of Harry’s dick presses up against his groin. Their chests touch, Harry’s bare skin against Louis’ shirt, Louis’ naked legs cradling Harry’s clothed ones. It’s maddening, how good it feels. Louis crawls his hands up Harry’s back as they kiss, messier now, tongues sliding and reaching out. Harry slips one arm under Louis’ back and they are held tightly together, the movement of their hips barely readable, but more than enough to make Louis’ breath come faster and his head curl into Harry’s shoulder to muffle the noise.

He’s sheltered against the hard muscle of Harry’s chest. He kisses the skin there blindly, letting himself give up to Harry’s strong arms around him and the sound of his little moans. Everywhere Harry is both soft and hard. Soft lips, hard jaw. Soft voice, hard teeth. Soft skin, hard muscle. Their rhythm is getting faster, but more narrow and precise, bringing all of Louis’ senses to focus between their legs, where he can feel their hardness but the softness just underneath, too, softness that is warm and smells good and wants to be exposed and touched, and the thought of it makes him spread his legs up and out so Harry can feel it too, and _there_ , it’s all there, all the parts of Louis that are hidden and only for the two of them.

Harry gasps, rising up farther on top of him, and now they move as if they’ve both found the same current on the same wave, and Louis’ hands drag down Harry’s back to hold him, hold them both as it rises. The darkness opens up to them and the pleasure is filling his throat, making him bite Harry’s chest a little, holding it in because it wants to burst out clean and loud. (I love you, fuck, I _fucking goddammit love you._ )

“I’m … ugh, I’m coming …” Louis whisper-groans. Harry’s breath hitches and stops, and Louis’ leg wraps around Harry’s hip to force him closer right now to feel the shuddering wetness of it, and Harry is making a sound, a beautiful deep rocking sound but there is no care in the world about noise or people who might hear this because what could be more important than what they are right now, a riot of crashing thoughts like flowers and legs and a bloody nose, quiet, wet leaves, remember? Race you! Tan skin, bruise, salty sour sweet, kiss and shhh, tears, it’s alright, I brought you something. (Hold, tighter, I can’t see you but you’re so fucking beautiful, everyone, _everyone_ loves you, but you’re still claiming, _claiming_ me, I’m yours, I’m yours on the grass in your bed in my bed, please let’s always _always_ be this for each other, ahh, come, I can feel you coming, are you going to?) “Are you? Yeah, yeah …”

It’s kind of funny, the uneven, jerky movements that seem to wring their muscles out. After the little convulsions, the gasping and the sighing, there are quiet giggles that make them shake in a different way. And kisses, small dry kisses scattered over skin that is damp and growing cool.

Harry lets his whole weight down on Louis, finally, and Louis doesn’t let him roll off, even when he tries.

“Better?” Harry says into Louis’ neck. It’s no longer ticklish, but Louis chuckles anyway.

(I was having this dream, before you got here. I couldn’t make my legs do anything. They were frozen. But they feel good now. Everything feels good. You feel good. I love you.)

“Mhm. That was cool you came.”

“Had to see if you were alright.”

That nightmare is gone, the game dead and buried; Louis’ legs hum with heat and power, and Harry falls asleep between them.

◊ ◊ ◊

Saturday, 4:00 a.m.

Harry turns over, smelling flowers. This bed doesn’t feel like his, and there is a fly in his ear.

He swats at it but it won’t go away; he slowly opens his eyes and remembers, then feels for his buzzing phone on Louis’ nightstand.

He slides it open and fumbles awkwardly to shut off the alarm before it wakes the whole house. Next to him, Louis isn’t moving. He could lean over and kiss him, but he should let him sleep. They both have weight training later, and Louis might have film too, like Harry does.

Harry sits up in the dark, waiting for his eyes to adjust. There is a dull ache around his ribs when he moves; he touches the skin gingerly, wondering what the bruise looks like. He lets himself imagine Louis’ hands on it, what it would feel like to watch Louis kiss it, what Louis would say. Nothing, probably, because Louis doesn't say much when they are close like that, but still, he can picture Louis press his lips and tongue against it, then smile his shy smile.

Harry tries to shift gears as he rubs his eyes and yawns, thinking about what he needs to gather up to go home. Shirt. Sweatshirt. Shoes. And the boutonniere, so he can give it back to Louis tonight in front of his parents before the dance. He smiles to himself, thinking about it, how Louis’ face will look when he’s pretending it’s the first time he’s seen it.

He reaches down to the foot of the bed for his shirt, and feels warm fingers on the small of his back.

“’S darkoutthere,” Louis mumbles.

“I know. Go back to sleep.”

“’S cold, too.”

“Mmhmm.” (I have to go. I don’t want to, though. I love you. A lot.)

Harry eases off the bed and feels his way to Louis’ desk for his sweatshirt. He pulls it on, wondering if it would really be so terrible if he stayed. He’s already busted his curfew. Louis’ mom and dad would be pissed, Harry’s would be worried sick and calling all his friends’ parents, and he’d probably get suspended from the team. But Louis’ sleepy voice and warm, curled up body under the covers is enough to make him consider it.

In the end, it’s the dance that sways him to quit while he’s ahead. He wants to pull up to Louis’ house in the pickup, boutonniere in hand, and pin it on Louis’ lapel in front of his parents. He wants to take him by the hand and lead him into the St. Pat’s gym, under all the cheesy decorations and twinkling lights. He wants to show Louis off, pose for pictures, dance slow to that new Ed Sheeran song Louis likes, and drink punch and exchange looks full of secret thoughts that only they understand. (Everyone loves you, you know. They’ll be staring and curious and they’ll probably try to flirt. You’re a star. But you're _my_ star, wearing that flower. And they’ll all know it.)

Harry finds the flower box on the nightstand and takes one sniff before closing the lid and slipping it into his sweatshirt pocket along with his phone. The short distance to the window seems endless, not because of the darkness, but because Louis’ bed, with Louis in it, stands in his way. He slides his hand along the edge of the bed to guide him, and makes it over to the other side where he left his sneakers. He kicks around in the dark for them, and only finds one.

“Text me later.”

Louis’ voice is so low Harry might have imagined it. But when he turns Louis is rolling over.

“I will,” Harry answers quietly, tiptoeing closer. He leans down and is surprised to feel Louis’ hand on his chest first, then moving up to his neck. Louis pulls him in gently, and kisses him on the corner of his mouth.

“Hustle, hit,” Louis whispers against his cheek.

“Never quit.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

There is a little grin in Louis’ voice, and Louis’ thumb caresses Harry’s chin. Harry could sink right back into the bed and hold him until they fall back to sleep.

(I want you to love me too.) “Hustle, hit. Never quit.”

Their last kiss is soft and dry, a goodbye, a thank you.

Harry pulls away, thinking about someday when it could be their own place, with the lights on, as loud and as late and as long into the morning as they want.

But that day is not today.

He puts his other sneaker on, opens the sash as quietly as he can, and steps out into the cold night.

  


  
  


  
  
  



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